The Journey: A Tale of Three Immortals Book 1
by vandevere
Summary: Earth, 1995, the Beginning of the Eugenics Wars. Character death(s) John Goodman from "Man From Earth" will also appear.
1. Chapter 1

The Journey: A tale of Three Immortals: A Star Trek/L&O/Man from Earth Merge

Book One: Journey's Start

 _Note: Someone, somewhere, photo-shopped Jack McCoy into an Original Star Trek Series Uniform, and I got bitten by a rabid plot-bunny. So…caveat emptor…_

 _1995_

The world was going to hell in a handbasket. Everyone knew that; Jack McCoy no less than the rest.

The Asian Bloc, under the rule of charismatic war lord, Khan Noonian Singh, was snarling and sniping at the USSA: the United States of South America, the super state that had arisen from the ashes of decades-long civil wars in Argentina, Bolivia, and Peru.

The USSA, too, had its war lord, Estaban Bolivar, and he was no less charismatic than Singh.

The rest of the world eyed these two combatants nervously, aware that any miss-step could result in a major nuclear conflagration.

Jack McCoy was quite happy to leave such problems to wiser heads than his.

He already had enough on his plate anyway. Samuel Arden had killed his business partner. No one was quite sure _why_ , just yet. Getting the answer to that particular question would have to wait, though…

Arden had immediately fled the jurisdiction, flying all the way to Las Vegas, of all things.

The DA's Office had sent an ADA, Claire Kincaid, out to Vegas. She had returned empty-handed. That was when the District DA, Adam Schiff, decided to break out the big guns.

So, here Jack McCoy was, in Sin City on an early afternoon. He'd been loaned a tiny little cubicle in the DA's office to work out of, was now on the phone, long-distance all the way to Manhattan.

Claire Kincaid was a little miffed about being left behind in Manhattan; and McCoy could understand.

The bed in the cheap motel was a double…

 _Oh, well…Missed opportunities, and all that crap…_

"How's the case with Spivak going?" he asked Kincaid.

"Torrelli decided to plead out," McCoy could hear paper rustling as Kincaid leafed through her notes. Even with computers, ADAs generated a lot of paperwork that couldn't be left to computers alone.

"He Allocuted to Murder One, and he's doing the Max."

He heard her pause.

"How is it there?"

"Sunny and _hot_ ," McCoy complained.

"Hey…" he heard her laugh. "At least it's dry heat. Muggy heat is the worst."

"It's as dry as a bone here, Claire," McCoy sat back. "Did you send the files I asked for?"

No answer came over the line.

"Claire?"

Nothing.

 _A disconnect?_

He hung the office phone up, dialed his Manhattan office number again.

Nothing.

Not even a dial tone.

 _Okay…_

McCoy shrugged, put the phone down.

 _I'll try again after I've spoken to the Judge._

Everything sounded subdued as he walked the short distance to the Court House, which struck McCoy as odd.

 _Early afternoon…lots of diners and cafes on the way to the Court House. There should be more people about._

… _.._

 _200 s 3_ _rd_ _Street, Las Vegas_

 _Court House_

"Your Honor," Arden's Defense Attorney, Adam Wesley, spoke up. "I request that the State refuse Manhattan's extradition demand."

"On what grounds?" Jack McCoy stood.

"Counselor…" The Honorable Lydia Evans glared at Wesley, and if looks could kill…

Then, she sighed.

"Request accepted…" Evens spoke softly.

"I object, your Honor," McCoy snapped.

"So do I, Mr. McCoy…So do I…" Real sadness in Evans' voice now. "You don't know?"

There was the feeling of a yawning chasm opening under his feet.

"Know…what, Your Honor?"

Evans sighed again, turned to the Defense Attorney.

"You're dismissed, Mr. Wesley," she spoke disapprovingly. "Tell Mr. Arden he's free to go."

She stood, gestured to McCoy.

"Join me in Chambers, Mr. McCoy. I'll explain."

"I'll need to call Manhattan first," McCoy hadn't felt _this_ uncertain in a very long time.

"In my Chambers…"

McCoy followed Lydia Evans into her Chambers.

Once there, she put off her Judge's Robe.

"I don't know how to explain this, Mr. McCoy. May I call you Jack?"

"You can call me anything you like," McCoy was seething with anger. "Provided you tell me why you refused Manhattan's extradition request."

"Dammit!" Evans snarled. "I refused the request because the District of Manhattan doesn't exist anymore!"

McCoy stood there, frozen.

"Manhattan… _what..?"_

"Sit, Jack."

McCoy felt Evans' hands on his shoulder, caressing, guiding him to a comfortable couch as she spoke.

" _Someone…_ either the Asian Bloc, or the USSA, dropped a nuclear device over Manhattan, about thirty minutes ago."

For some reason, McCoy's brain wasn't working quite right at parsing the meaning of Evans' words.

"A…nuclear device. A… _bomb?"_

McCoy felt, rather than heard, his voice crack, shock paralyzing his limbs…his _brain._

"I was talking to Claire…" he whispered. "On the phone…"

"I'm sorry, Jack…" he barely felt Evans' arms around him, he barely heard the office door opening, another person entering the office. And he certainly didn't hear Evans tell someone to call a doctor.

 _Adam…Claire…Anita…Lennie…Danielle and Sally..?_

They were gone. Each and every one of them. Along with the rest of Manhattan…


	2. Chapter 2

The Journey: A Tale of Three Immortals

 _Note: In this story, World War III and the Eugenics War are the same war._

 _Las Vegas, 1999_

The war was finally over. What had started as a falling out between South America and India had escalated into an all-out World War following the nuking of Manhattan.

The UN had called the rest of the world-including Russia and her allies-together to stop South America and the Asian Bloc.

South America had surrendered in '98. The Asian Bloc…under Khan Noonian Singh, fought on, and under his charismatic leadership, and the undeniable genetically engineered capabilities of both himself, and his high command, there was a distinct possibility he might win.

However, no one accounted for Colonel Phillip Green.

Against express orders, the man had ordered a nuclear strike against Khan.

He would later be charged by the UN, and convicted, of genocide for his actions.

World War III was over, won by the United Nations.

But now, it was time to reckon the cost. To try to repair the damage…

Over two hundred million dead, bombed-out cities the world over in need of sanitation, supplies, and…well… _everything._

Apart from the nuking of Manhattan, America had fared relatively well; especially compared to those nations closest to South America and the Asian Bloc. There had been severe rationing, of course, all available resources diverted to the war. But the good old US of A was still standing at the end of the war.

…..

Jack McCoy, now residing in Las Vegas, kept a wary eye and ear on current events. He had a job here in Sin City now. He had been hired immediately as an ADA in '95. The District DA retired in '97, and _his_ EADA, Ricardo Montez, had been promoted to take his place.

That left the position of Executive Assistant DA open, so, of course, Jack McCoy interviewed for the position. With his years of experience, and his track record, he was a shoe-in.

But Montez had placed a peculiar condition upon McCoy's appointment.

"I want you to see a psychiatrist, Jack," he had said. "Or join a group therapy session. You have a reputation as a heavy drinker, and I don't want that affecting your work."

"I'm not an alcoholic!" McCoy had snapped.

"I know…I know…"There had been a mollifying tone to Montez's voice. "You lost a lot of friends to the Manhattan nuking."

"I'll see what I can do," McCoy sighed. He didn't want to see a psychiatrist; didn't want anyone poking their noses into the inner working of his mind.

But Montez was adamant that Jack McCoy do… _something._

McCoy had heard about this general support group, run by a volunteer, John Oldman. They met weekly over coffee and donuts, on Friday evenings, at the local church.

Maybe that would be enough…

…..

There was a new face today.

John Oldman noticed the newcomer immediately. Tall, lean, hawk-featured, the man seemed to be here unwillingly.

He took a seat in one of the chairs gathered about, albeit somewhat hesitantly. But the others had arrived, all ages, all walks of life, and it was now time to start. So Oldman took a seat too.

"Hello," he spoke to the newcomer. "I'm John Oldman, and this is our Support Group. We deal with everything here, Love, loss…Grief…death. Whatever you have problems with."

He looked about at the others; about twenty all told.

"Why don't you introduce yourself, and we'll all get acquainted."

The man complied, rather gracelessly, then sat there, head bowed, scowling thunderously as around twenty variations of _Hi, Jack_ made the rounds.

"Where are you from, Jack?" Christine was a twenty-something waitress.

"I'm an ADA," Jack McCoy was apparently quite good at deflecting. "I work out of the DA's Office."

"I think she meant _where_ did you come from before?" That was Burt, a city accountant, and one of the sharper pencils in Oldman's group. "Don't get me wrong, Jack. But you don't look like a Vegas guy…"

 _They're coming too hard and fast…_

"Guys…" Oldman spoke up. "Jack will tell us what he wants to tell us when he's ready to tell us. Don't push…"

McCoy's body language told Oldman everything he needed to know.

 _Ready to flee…_

But, Jack McCoy didn't flee. He sat there, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together, listening as Burt, the city accountant described the death of his wife to cancer, and Christine talked about her boyfriend suddenly dumping her for her best friend.

It was Lorraine, speaking of losing her entire family in the Manhattan Strike…

Jack remained there, utterly still, hands clasped together. But, as Lorraine spoke, telling of the guilt she felt, for taking that casino vacation when she had, for not being home to die with her family…

"Excuse me…" McCoy mumbled, voice shaking as he pushed back his chair. "I…I'm sorry…"

He fled the room, and John Oldman knew.

 _Another New Yorker who lost everything. Friends, family, his sense of place…_


	3. Chapter 3

_200 Lewis Avenue,_

 _Las Vegas, Nevada_

 _2002_

It was a Friday afternoon, and the week's business, although light, still had a few cases for ADAs to prosecute.

"How's the Alberts Case progressing?" Jack McCoy's new boss, Ricardo Montez, asked.

Steven Alberts, charged with embezzlement…

McCoy sighed. Blunt and forceful, Montez was no Adam Schiff.

 _But, life goes on…_

McCoy had come to accept that Manhattan was gone, that all the people he had known there-Lennie, Anita, Claire and Adam-were gone. He had even come to accept that the ache in his chest would be permanent, a thing even scotch couldn't erase.

The worst part of it all was that-except for the one little picture of Claire Kincaid he carried in his wallet-he had no photographs, nothing to keep their faces green in his memory.

When he had come to Vegas, back in '95, he had done so with the expectation that there would be a Manhattan for him to come back home to.

"Jack?" Montez's voice pulled him back, and he sat up straight, proffering a folder to his boss.

"Alberts looks like he's going to plead out. All we need is a little more pressure."

The television was quietly playing in the background. Montez was a bit of a science nut, and a fan of Dr. Jonas Brandt.

Brandt, had been causing a bit of a stir lately.

He was speaking on the PBS Series, _Cosmos II,_ right now. The topic of the day was space travel.

One of the fruits of victory from WWIII was the discovery that Khan Noonian Singh had been in possession of ships capable of actual deep space travel.

 _The DIY-100_

One of the newly-discovered sleeper-ships had been found to be missing. The specialists theorized that Khan, and some of his people, might have escaped off-world.

 _And just like that, our universe just got a whole lot bigger,_ Jack McCoy thought.

Now, Dr. Brandt was pushing space colonization, and…hyper spatial travel…

"In the last sixty or so years, we've had several nuclear bombs detonated on our world," Brandt, an aristocratic-looking man with a crown of silver hair, was speaking on the television screen. "Most of these events were tests, with stringent safety protocols established. But four bombs were dropped on targets with deliberate intent…"

 _Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Manhattan, and New Delhi…_

Jack McCoy listened as Brandt continued speaking on the television.

"That there will be future wars, with future nuclear bombings, is a virtual certainty; if for no other reason that our planet is becoming far too crowded. Our population numbers in the _billions_ , outstripping our planet's ability to support us. Wars over waning resources will become a regular occurrence. Space travel… _colonization_ …is the only way we will be able to survive as a species."

"He thinks we might be on the edge of discovering true hyperspace travel," Montez's eyes were alight at the possibility. "Just think, Jack…our kids and grandkids might be able to go to other worlds."

 _Yeah…_ McCoy thought sourly. _Right…_

…..

"Well, Jack?" John Oldman's voice intruded on McCoy's thoughts.

McCoy sighed, roused himself. At a bar, a tumbler of eight-year-old scotch in front of him. John Oldman was sitting next to him.

 _This_ was apparently Oldman's idea of one-on-one therapy…

Drinking together, as the Game-whatever the game was-played on the TV,

McCoy sighed again, slid the small photograph out of his wallet.

Him and Claire Kincaid together.

 _My arm was around her, we were happy, in love…_

"Never thought I would have to go through the Five Stages for an entire city," McCoy muttered as he looked down at the infinitely precious picture in his hands.

Right now, it was rage…pure fiery rage that filled his soul.

"It know you'll find this hard to believe," Oldman sipped his scotch as he spoke. "But, it will get better."

"If you say so…" McCoy put the photo back into his wallet, downed his tumbler of scotch. "It's getting late."

"Yes," Oldman downed his scotch too. The two men settled their tabs, then headed outside, into the crisp, clean evening air.

"See you next week?" Oldman asked.

"Yeah…sure. Goodnight, John."

McCoy headed back to his small apartment. It sat on a quiet side street, far from the dens of sin Vegas was famous for. Here, the only sounds were the occasional cars, few and far between on a late Friday night.

 _Not like Manhattan with the constant sound of sirens. How odd that I should feel homesick about that…_


	4. Chapter 4

_200 Lewis Avenue_

 _Las Vegas Nevada_

 _2008_

Sitting in the District DA's Office, sitting at the District DA's desk for the very first time.

Ricardo Montez had decided he was finally too old for all the bullshit that came with being District DA. So, he had retired, and named Jack McCoy his interim replacement.

 _You'll do fine,_ Montez had said. _You have the makings of a great District DA. And, if you decide you don't want the headaches that go with the job, you can always not run for the office when the time comes…_

The accolades, from all of his new friends in Vegas, had come swiftly.

Then, John Oldman took him out to dinner. It was a small Diner that served the best traditional Diner Food in the city.

"How old are you, Jack?" he had asked out of the blue.

"I'm almost sixty-eight," McCoy frowned as he put his fork down. "But I told you that years ago."

"You don't look it, Jack," Oldman said. "You look exactly the same as you did when I first met you. I could almost believe you haven't aged at all since then."

"John..." The Attorney tilted his head. "Are we thinking of joining the Tin Foil Hat crowd?"

"Go into the Men's' Room, Jack," Suddenly, Oldman was serious. Grim, even. "Take a good long look at yourself. Then you tell me if you look like you're in your sixties."

"Uh…Okay…" McCoy stood slowly, feeling sort of alarmed, even if only for his friend's sanity. "Don't know what you're trying to prove, but I'll play along…"

He stalked into the Men's' Room, walked up to glare into the mirror above the sink.

The same face he looked at every morning as he shaved.

 _What did John see that alarmed him? What am I supposed to see?_

His hair was still the jet black of his youth, his features unlined.

 _I don't look like I'm in my sixties,_ the realization was sudden.

On impulse, he took his one lone photograph of Claire Kincaid out of his wallet, looked at it.

 _Just Claire and me…_

It had been taken several months before what people now called _The Manhattan Event._

 _Claire had cajoled me into taking her to a fair…_

There they were, the two of them, looking almost unbearably happy…

But the evidence was pretty clear.

 _I don't look any older now than I looked then…_

…..

John Oldman sat in the diner, drinking his iced tea. He hadn't wanted to do that to Jack McCoy.

But, he knew things about the world, and the secrets it hid…

 _Jack has no clue…no idea…_

 _How do I tell him what I think he is? He'd never believe it._

There Jack McCoy was, walking back from the Men's' Room.

"Okay, John," he growled as he sat down. "So I don't look my age. What the hell are you trying to pull here?"

Oldman bowed his head and sighed.

 _It won't be easy for him; and more than it was easy for Akharin…_

Akharin was Jonas Brandt now, the trillionaire philanthropist who was doing his absolute best to gift humanity with deep space travel.

 _So we can get off Earth, and give ourselves some breathing space…_

"John…"

That was Jack McCoy's patented _I'm at the end of my patience_ voice.

Oldman sighed again.

"There's a very good reason you don't look your age," he began.

"Good genes?" there was a boat-load of snark in McCoy's tone.

"Of an _extremely_ recessive nature," Oldman braced himself. Then he said the words…

"You're immortal, Jack."

…..

 _You're immortal, Jack._

John Oldman's words bounced around in Jack McCoy's head, finding no purchase where they could stop and actually acquire meaning.

Gripping his coffee-mug tightly, as if it could serve as an anchor.

Laughter bubbled up; dark and bitter, and he felt the hysteria behind it all.

"Immortal…My ass!" McCoy finally got the words out. He fought to get a grip on himself. For his part, John Oldman sat patiently, apparently willing to wait this out.

"We can talk over scotch," he finally said. "My place?"

"Sure," McCoy was still chuckling. "Doesn't mean I'm going to believe you."

"Give it twenty years, Jack. You'll believe me then."

…..

 _November 1, 2028…_

John Oldman was right. Twenty years later, Jack McCoy _did_ believe him.

Sitting in John Oldman's small kitchen, tumbler of eight-year-old scotch in front of him.

 _I'm celebrating my eighty-eighth birthday, and I still don't look any older than I did back in '95…_

"I'm sorry," John Oldman, now living under the name of David Oldman, sat across from him. "I know this will take some getting used to. Did you retire from the DA's Office?"

"Yeah…" McCoy nodded. "But I don't know what to do now."

"You change your name," Oldman said. "You take up a different job."

"But the Law is all I know!" Panic filled McCoy.

"Did you ever want to be anything else when you were a kid?"

McCoy sighed, remembering his father.

"I wanted to be a cop when I was little," he admitted. "Like my old man…"

"Then go to Police Academy, Jack. _Be_ a cop. Or anything else you can think of."

Oldman leaned forward, eyes blazing.

"You can be anything you want to be. I've been a million things over my life; a warrior with stone axe and club, a High Priest. Even a Rabbi once. I've been a shepherd, I've herded pigs, tended bars…you name it, I've done it. That's the one positive thing about being immortal, the things you get to do, and the people you meet on the way."

"But I can't be Jack McCoy anymore," Somehow, that hurt, like I knife through the heart. "I can't be _me_ anymore."

"You will _always_ be you," Oldman laid a gentle hand on McCoy's shoulder. "And, eventually, you will get used to the masquerade; all the names."

"I hope so…" McCoy sighed.

Oldman held up his scotch.

"Happy Birthday, Jack."

"Yeah…"

Glasses clinked together, and Jack downed his scotch.

 _Happy Birthday to me. And, apparently, many,_ _ **many**_ _more…_

…..

 _Six Months later_

 _Seattle, Washington_

 _Criminal Justice Training Center_

 _19010 1_ _st_ _Ave S_

It was Graduation Day at Police Academy. Among the graduates of that class, there was an Adam Kincaid.

The other grads were kind of in awe of him. He was older than the others by a considerable margin, with a given age of forty-eight.

In reality, Kincaid was considerably older than that.

Jack McCoy sighed as he looked down at the blue uniform he was wearing. He felt as if he had come around full circle, to the dreams of his childhood.

 _I wanted to be a cop. To wear the blues, to catch the bad guys._

It had been his father's dreams that had prevailed, his father who had forced him into Law School.

But, now…

Now, he _was_ a cop; and it wasn't his father who filled his thoughts.

 _Detective Leonard W. Briscoe…_

 _Lennie, with his cynical, world-weary take on the vicissitudes of life._

All of a sudden, he missed Briscoe intensely, missed his snarky comments, and his solid, steady dependability.

And now he knew what kind of cop he should be.

 _Be a Lennie kind of cop…_


End file.
